John Watson, Dog Owner
by Selvine das'Annwyn
Summary: A prompt drabble regarding the daily lives of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Prompt was "Puppy". This is one of many ways I can see John's days off turning if he chooses to go home the night before. No character is actually a dog, this is simply a comparison based on some of their behavior, as specified within. Non-beta'd/edited, reviews/critiques welcome/encouraged. Please R&R!


**Disclaimer: I do not own BBCSherlock, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mrs Hudson, or 221B Baker Street.  
Warning: Implied cursing, use of singular swear word.**

A/N: So this was a prompt I found particularly entertaining. "Puppy". And immediately I knew how I wanted to apply it to this pair, in fact, it wasn't even a challenge deciding between these two and my Marvelverse pairing when it came to the prompt. Sherlock was the blatant choice.

I would like to clarify ahead of time, if you aren't already aware, that Sherlock is not actually a dog in this fic, it's simply an analogy. I thought about using the title "Sherlock Holmes, Beagle" in its place since that's the dog I effectively see him as, but I think I like this the way it is. Besides, if I ever decide to do anything else with this idea, that may make a good title for the continuation. XD Not that I promise anything in regards to continuing the story.

Anyway, it really was just a suggested prompt from the Grab Bag over at "Fifteen Minutes of Fiction", and it was one I couldn't turn down, not with these two nagging for another story to be written sometime soon. Marvel took over for a couple days, but I think Sherlock will more than make up for it by the time I'm done with these prompts I've had sitting around, and then we'll see where we go next.

In any event, reviews and critiques are welcomed and encouraged, as per usual. I hope you'll enjoy this drabble as much as I enjoyed writing it, if not moreso. :)

Thanks for your time, and hopefully for your Opinions,  
-Selvine

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Sherlock was a puppy. The thought had never occurred to Watson before, but as he sat in his chair and the detective watched him with keen interest, it had become unbearably apparent. The younger Holmes brother sat on the floor in front of their couch, propped up on his toes in a crouch the doctor had only ever seen in the comic _Death Note_, not that he would admit he read such stories to anyone. Black hair and elegant skin were shadowed in the dreary lighting of 221B Baker Street, and blue eyes probed with earnest pleas. Sherlock had kept this up for the better part of the morning, with the occasional whine about John not caring.

"John, you're being annoying, just do what I ask."

"John, you're silly, what is so complicated about this request?"

"John, why must you behave like such a child. You are obviously not busy. Just do this one thing for me, and I'll leave you alone. For the most part."

The morning had been full of insults, complaints, and even some begging. For the most part, the soldier had simply ignored the incessant griping and gone about his usual routine. This was his day off, and he'd be damned if the prat sitting across the room from him would take that away from him. Unfortunately, Sherlock did not like being ignored, and wasn't about to let his flatmate get away with treating him in such a way.

The first assault had occurred before John had even left his bed. Sherlock had walked into the room at three, carrying a pitcher of ice water and speaking loudly about the virtues of rising early and its effects on one's mental capacity. Abruptly following the lecture, the doctor had found himself drenched and his bed too wet to continue sleeping in. Sherlock's demands had followed through the cursing and stripping of the mattress to start the linens in the wash.

Next was John's shower. It was the one moment of the day when he was afforded the privacy a non-Sherlock person expected of their companions. Unfortunately, today social protocol seemed to have been thrown out the window with no hopes of recovery. Sherlock, who somehow never entered the restrooms in the building while John was home, had deliberately flushed. Scalding water had burnt the soldier's shoulders, and cursing, he had attempted to get out of the way as quickly as possible. The endeavor had not ended well.

Watson, though intelligent in his own right, had effectively attempted to run from the shower, and had slipped into the tub. Alongside the original burns, new ones bloomed under the heat from the showerhead, and bruises would appear soon after. Next was his monumental trip over the side of the bathtub and onto the ceramic floor below. Having hit his face, the doctor had acquired a bleeding nose and a split eyebrow, both charming and fun in its own light. Then, while John remained bare and scrambling from the floor, Sherlock had bypassed the lock and come barreling in with commentary on the benefits of cold showers on one's body. Then he had lectured on the need to avoid hot water at all times, as well as tidbits on bathtub safety, and commentary regarding how the money going toward the electric bills every month (for John's overuse of hot water, apparently), could go toward more important items they were currently in need of.

When John had pressed the taller man out the door, Sherlock had continued shouting to him through the door. When the doctor had unceremoniously slammed the door open toward the detective, he had received confusion and disdain at his hateful actions, then the younger Holmes brother had simply stalked off. He had though then that his troubles would be over.

He was wrong.

Upon starting to dress, Watson soon discovered that all of his undergarments had been stolen save for a pair of too-tight red briefs, left with a note lovingly attached. The note, of course, had been a reminder of the shopping that needed to be done, and John had scowled as he squeezed his slightly above regulations body into the underwear, muttering to himself the entire time. Sometimes living with Sherlock Holmes was more trouble than it was worth.

When breakfast had finally rolled around, the veteran had sought the eggs first, only to find them missing. Then the bread, butter, ham, cheese, and cereal also seemed to have magically disappeared. All that remained was an open bowl of what appeared to be blood, likely coagulating for some experiment Sherlock was performing in order to pass the time. Stomach growling, John had stalked over to his flatmate's door, only to find the remainders of all foodstuffs spread over his bed. Though the detective usually didn't eat, he seemed keen on consuming every last item, and when Watson inquired as to why it had been taken, the only response he received was that "It's an experiment". The doctor had even attempted to steal one of the three omelets lain across the bed, and had his hand promptly swatted away with a ruler.

Again, Sherlock reminded him that shopping needed to be done, and said the list had expanded since their last discussion.

John had stormed off to find Mrs Hudson and beg some tea and biscuits from her. There, he had found respite until the land lady had to leave and she had requested he return to his own flat. When he arrived, Sherlock was sitting there, watching and waiting, his hands to his nose as if deep in thought. "Did you get it?" Watson didn't reply, moving to his favored chair and plopping down with his laptop to work on his blog. When he couldn't log on, the doctor surmised the password had been changed. Thankfully, based on the morning's discussions, he had easily guessed the new one and had set away, clacking at the keys and doing his best to ignore Sherlock's off-key singing, un-tuned violin-playing, and the non-stop stares he was suffering.

Finally, as lunch began to roll around and the doctor felt pain tugging at his stomach, he sighed. Immediately, Sherlock perked up and looked to him with interest, "Will you buy it?"

Grumbling, Watson stood and retrieved his coat, checking to make sure his wallet and keys were inside before heading for the door, "Yes, I'll get the bloody milk. And everything else you've managed to use up in the past morning."

"Oh good, I've wanted to go outside all day!" Grinning, Sherlock snatched his coat and scarf, tugging them on over his blue-and-white pajamas and securing them in place. Soon to follow were his fuzzy blue slippers. The man looked utterly ridiculous.

John almost asked why, then shrugged. Sometimes it was best to take the dog for its walk. Sherlock's way of marking his territory was much more annoying than the alternative.

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**A/N:** I hope you all enjoyed this, I really do. :3 Please let me know what you think, and feel free to message me in regards to any ideas, thoughts, etc. I love communicating with my readers~ It makes my life go ooooon~

Well, maybe not, as I would be dead by now if it did, but still. ^-^

Thanks again for your reading, your time, your opinions, and you in general~  
Love you All,  
-Sel


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